I Wish You Were There Inside My Mind
by trisana
Summary: Modern day. Christine encounters someone in the auditorium of her school... Raoul bashing. Probably EC. I lied. DEFINITELY EC.
1. Deanne, And Other Troubles

A/N: If you don't like that I don't know the premise, don't read it. Don't review just to say you don't like not knowing where the plot is going. I came up with it while swimming yesterday.

Disclaimer: I don't own PotO, and there (probably) won't be any BIG original character parts. OK, I lied. Her little sister is mine.

Christine Daae dived into the water, feeling the coolness of it on the burning day. As she surfaced, she looked around. She sighed. There were no guys around to impress, except for the lifeguards, and _everyone _knew they were Off Limits. Well, there was one guy. He didn't exist, though. She had to keep telling herself that _he didn't exist_. The one guy whose name had haunted her dreams since she'd read that book, whose face had haunted her since someone had unwittingly shown her the movie. _There's no one here except…_ She allowed her thoughts to trail off. _She_ knew his name, what did it matter that no one else did?

She submerged herself, simply thinking, _I wish that _he _was watching._ As she came up for air, a voice called, "Christine! Christine! Christine!" Christine gritted her teeth and swam over to where her little sister was clinging to the edge.

"What is it, Deanne?" she asked grumpily. She _hated _it when people—especially her four-year-old sister—interrupted her while she was fantasizing about a certain person…

"Christine, I'm going on the diving board!"

"That's great, Deanne," Christine replied, rolling her eyes.

She swam off, to go back to thinking. _I love everything about him,_ she told herself. _Now that I admitted it, let's make him exist_. She began to sing softly to herself,

In sleep he sang to me,

_In dreams he came,_

_  
That voice which calls to me,_

_And speaks my name._

_  
And do I dream again?_

_For now I find._

_  
The Phantom of the Opera is there-_

Inside my mind.

Her mind began to fill in the next part from all the times she'd listened to this particular song._  
_

_Sing once again with me,_

_Our strange duet,  
_

_My power over you, _

_Grows stronger yet.  
_

_And though you turn from me, _

_To glance behind.  
_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there-_

_Inside your mind.  
_

She began to sing softly again, aware that Deanne had finally reached the diving board._  
_

Those who have seen your face,

_Draw back in fear._

_  
I am the mask you wear.  
_

His remembered voice continued.

_It's me they hear._

She began to sing a duet with her imagination

_Your/my spirit and my/your voice in one combined._

The Phantom of the Opera is there inside my/your mind.

Christine hummed along with the background voices, knowing she had nothing to beware from the imaginary figment.

_  
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera . . ._

_  
Beware the Phantom of the Opera . . ._

He started up again.

_  
In all your fantasies,_

_You always knew,_

_That man and mystery . . .  
_

She sang.

...Were both in you.

She sang together with his voice again.

_  
And in this labyrinth,_

_Where night is blind,_

_  
The Phantom of the Opera is there/here _

Inside your/my mind . . .

His voice shouted passionately.

_  
Sing, my Angel of-_

"_CHRISTINE!_" Deanne shouted from the board. "_Look at me!_"

Secretly, she was glad that her sister, little pest that she was, had chosen that moment to demand attention. Christine, an alto, was always embarrassed that she couldn't hit the high notes that her 19th century counterpart could.

Christine snickered a little at the thought. She was floating here, in love with a man who had probably never existed, being jealous _of herself_. Wow, she'd sunk low. If time travel were ever invented in her lifetime, she'd be the first customer, though. She'd travel back to 1870, no matter what the cost, shout at herself for making the wrong choice, beat up the Vicomte de Changy, and see if Erik really had killed himself. And if he hadn't… Well, she was eighteen. It was legal.

"_CHRISTINE!_" Deanne shouted again, more insistently. _Why didn't mom and dad stop after Danyelle and me? _she wondered. _And why did they wait until I was fourteen and Danyelle was _eighteen_? They should've known she was too old to have children. Now Deanne's the center of dad's attention, since mom died giving birth. It's hardly our fault that Danyelle and I look like dad, and Deanne looks like mom, but now she's 'the only memory he has of her,' as he puts it_.

She wished she had some underground catacombs to run to when life got bad, where a man that loved her was waiting. _God, the Christine Daae in 1870 was _such an idiot, she thought. _And now no one will ever let me live it down. Just 'cause of that movie. If I ever meet a guy named Raoul, or, heaven forbid, Erik, it'd get even worse. Especially with Deanne ripping at his face, if one, I meet someone named Erik, and two, he doesn't hate me on sight._


	2. A Musical?

A/N: I realize that the last chappy didn't really go anywhere, because everyone already knows who Christine is. Oh, and _The Poet Sings _actually exists. I had to sing it for All-State year before last (I didn't get in, sigh sigh). I'm sorry if I screwed up the lyrics, but I couldn't find it online and don't have my sheet music with me.

Ok, you think you've done something weird?

Ever roasted marshmallows over an open flame when it's raining?

Not just ordinary rain, but Alabama Rain, where you can look up and drown.

It's slightly warm,

It's slightly soggy,

It's the new hit reality show, ROASTING MARSHMALLOWS IN THE RAIN!

Disclaimer: I ain't makin' no money offa this here piece o' werk. (Yeah, I'm a redneck. Deal with it, eh.)

♫ ♫ ♫

Christine was getting ready for school, wishing she could be back in the pool like she'd been two days before. She sang to herself as she brushed her hair. She came in in the middle of the song, but she didn't care.

_She's somewhere and I hear her sing,_

_Her words, in timeless memory._

_Stay the course,_

_Light a star,_

_Change the world where ever you are._

She remained silent where she was supposed to be singing 'ah.' Being an alto required a lot of 'ah'ing or 'ooh'ing, but as Christine didn't know the melody on this part and didn't want to 'ah,' she just didn't sing.

She came in a few measures later.

_Moriah!_

_Moriah!_

She winced as her voice cracked on the high notes, which really weren't that high. The sour notes reverberating around her bathroom broke the spell. Christine was especially glad that Deanne wasn't up. _She_ should've been the one named Christine. She already had a beautiful soprano voice, even though she was only four.

"If you want to sing," she told herself, "pick something with a low range and stop pretending to be a soprano." She sighed. She was racking her brain for a good song, but found none. Christine looked at herself in the mirror. Today was Green Themed Day. She was wearing a lime green long sleeved shirt with a short sleeved darker green shirt that said 'Camp Skyline Ranch Troopers' on the front over it. She had been too old for Skyline for the past two years, but kept the shirts. She was also wearing a pair of military style cargo pants. Everything she was wearing was green, including her makeup. And it all clashed, but Christine didn't care.

She rushed down the stairs pausing only to grab a Pop-Tart™, before running out and getting into her best friend Meg's car.

As Meg chattered about this hot party, who'd broken up with who, who'd woken up with who, and all the other weekend gossip, Christine let her mind wander and ate her breakfast.

"Christine!" said Meg. "Did you not hear me?"

"Umm… no… I was…thinking."

"Fine. I should've never shown you that movie. But," and her voice grew excited, "there's gonna be a musical at school!"

"Big whoop." Christine said glumly. "Charlotté will get the lead."

"You didn't let me _finish_," Meg said, sounding a little peeved. "There's gonna be a musical at school…with an alto lead!"

Christine blinked. It took a while for it to sink in. Then she began to squeal excitedly, just like her best friend. "No way! _No way! _Musicals _never_ have alto leads! Aah! Are you trying out?"

Meg laughed. "For the lead? Never. That's your territory. I _am _trying out, though. _Prima ballerina,_ at your service."

"It's got ballet? _No way_."

"Way. And a good ballet part, even."

"A ballet and an alto lead. What musical is this, exactly?"

"Some random thing that a kid at one of the other schools wrote."

"It could've been written specifically for us."

"Ooh, we've got a stalker," Meg teased.

"You do know that Charlotté will try out for both our parts and then kill us if she doesn't get in."

"Yep."

They high-fived each other, then continued talking about what a fun time they were gonna have, if, that is, they got the parts they wanted.

At a pause, Christine asked, "So, who exactly is this kid, anyway."

"Some real freak, I've heard."

"What's his name?"

"Eric, I think." (A/N: Eric just doesn't look right. I can't even type Eric, I always type Erik, and have to go back and change it if I wanted Eric.)

"Erik," Christine whispered faintly, then pitched forward onto the door of the glove compartment, unconscious.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: Yay! Another chappy that goes next to nowhere! Tell me what you think of my chappy. Don't review to thank me for reviewing, or to tell me whom I reviewed. I know whom I reviewed. If you want to thank me, email me. And if you review just 'cause you're bored, have the decency not to tell me. And if you review, please read the chappy first. I know I sound picky, but I _am_ picky about things like that.


	3. Math, the Musical, and a New Kid

A/N: Hey guys, it's me again, with another story of Christine being random. By the way, I have a kitten that I got yesterday named Christine. She's already such a prima donna, I almost changed her name to Carlotta, but she's far too sweet for that.

I myself have done another increasingly random thing.

My dad and his girlfriend live only a little while apart.

My dad had his truck parked outside her house. Her car was also there.

My dad and I came over in a black Miata. (If I didn't misspell it) We left in a white truck. We came back in a white truck (we had to pick up a doghouse). We left in a white sedan. We came back in a white sedan. (I don't remember what we had to do) We left in a black Miata. We came back in a red Jensen Interceptor.

Every trip we made, we saw a middle aged couple out walking. You can believe how many strange looks we were getting.

Review responses. My favorite part (because it means I have reviews!)

**Syen**-No offense to you, but I can't really thank you for anything, since you didn't leave a real review.

**Maidenhair**-It's always good to meet insane people. I'm glad I provided you with entertainment.

**Silvermasque**-Grin. I'm so glad you reviewed. I absolutely LOVE a mirror between worlds. NOTE TO THE GENERAL POPULACE: YOU ALL NEED TO GO READ A MIRROR BETWEEN WORLDS. And you're right. It IS so much easier to love someone from a book, because you know their thoughts and beliefs and where they stand on everything.

**Erik for President**-Thank you muchly. I'll help on the campaign, if you want. :gives entire life savings to campaign fund:

On with the phic!

♫ ♫ ♫

Meg pulled over instantly, when she saw Christine pass out. It took a few moments, but she managed to rouse her friend. Her, by now, very angry friend.

"_Meg! Quit playing jokes like that!_" Christine yelled. (A/N: You've all heard of Angry Erik, but what about Angry Christine? Still trying to be original, here)

Meg looked around nervously. Her mother had taken her first aid kit out of her car to fix some brat's sprained ankle. Meg then realized that they were a lot closer than she thought, only about a block from the school, so she kept driving.

"_Meg!_"

Meg pulled into a parking spot.

"_Meg Giry! Apologize right now or you'll be roasting on a spit for my lunch!_"

Meg got out of the car and ran.

♫ ♫ ♫

Meg sat in Pre-Cal, fiddling with her pencil, trying not to bite her lip. _I hope Christine's BC Calculus class drains her of all will to live today like it usually does. I have choir with her next. I hope she's not still pissed off about that joke I played. Who would've thought that she'd react so violently? First fainting, then trying to rip my head off. I _knew _she liked that actor, Mr. Butler, but had no idea she'd read the book, too._

The teacher finished her speech about something about the midterm, and then said that they could talk for the rest of class.

Meg considered what Christine would say. _Who cares? _she decided after a moment. _Even if BC Cal doesn't turn her into a bitter, sarcastic shell of her former enraged self, just stepping foot into the choir room will._

One of Meg's closest friends, Jammes, the French foreign exchange student, came up to her. (A/N: Translations are in the parentheses ( )). "Bonjour, mégohm. Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui? (Good morning, Meg. How are you today?)" she said.

"Très bien, Jammes. Il est bon de vous voir, (Fine, Jammes. It's good to see you,)" Meg answered.

"Oui, il est. Est-ce que je peux demander pourquoi vous couriez à travers le sort de stationnement ce matin? (Yes, it is. May I ask why you were running across the parking lot this morning?)" Jammes asked.

"Oui, vous pouvez, (Yes, you may,)" Meg answered gravely.

"Pourquoi couriez-vous à travers le sort de stationnement ce matin? (Why were you running across the parking lot this morning?)"

"Christine lue le livre, (Christine's read the book,)" Meg said.

"Le livre? (_The _book?)" Jammes asked incredulously.

Meg nodded. "Oui. J'ai mentionné vous-connaître-qui appellent, et elle freaked dehors, (Yes. I mentioned you-know-who's name, and she _freaked out_.)"

"Ainsi, étiez-vous à la partie vendredi? (So, were you at the party on Friday?)" Jammes asked, trying to change the subject.

Meg didn't resist her efforts. "Ouais. Charlotté et ce type, défaut de la reproduction sonore. (Yeah. Charlotté and that guy, wow.)"

"Le type avec le visage? (The guy with the face?)" Jammes asked, trying to clarify.

"Ouais. (Yeah.)"

"Quel un? Elle était avec au moins trois. (Which one? She was with at least three.)"

"Celui avec l'aiguille collant hors de son bras, (The one with the needle sticking out of his arm,)" Meg answered.

"Ah, ce type avec le visage. (Ah, _that _guy with the face.)"

The bell rang. Meg waved goodbye to Jammes, who was going to AP Chem, and set off for choir.

♫ ♫ ♫

Christine sat in BC Calculus, fiddling with her pencil, trying not to bite her lip. _Why did I react like that? _she thought. _I guess it's the musical. Even if _that _part of the story wasn't made up, the Choir Teacher From Hell would_ _give Charlotté the lead part even if it was for a bass._

A hand shot up in the back of the room. Miranda, the class clown, asked, "It's just a few minutes until the bell, can we talk?"

The teacher, Dr. Mueller (A/N: Forgive me, Anya. It was just too good.), swiveled his head in her direction. "_Nein!_" he thundered in his creepy German accent, "Class has barely _begun_, and you vant to _talk_?" (A/N: Me again. Sorry if the German accent didn't come out right, but just imagine that it did.) Miranda shrunk down visibly in her seat, along with Christine and the rest of the class. (A/N: In their own seats, obviously, not Miranda's). "Ve vork until zat bell rings!" Dr. Mueller continued.

Christine sat there for the last five minutes of class, taking notes, utterly sapped of her will to live.

♫ ♫ ♫

As Meg was walking down the hall from the math wing to the choir room at the other end of the school, she picked up on some juicy gossip.

"There's a new kid."

"He's really hot."

"He's so mine."

"He's so _mine_."

Meg smiled at the sounds of the catfight behind her. Maybe a hot new kid would perk Christine up. And if it didn't, well, Meg was certainly perked up.

♫ ♫ ♫

Christine was late to choir, since the police had blocked off the one hallway that led to the choir room. From what she'd gathered, two girls had been fighting. Probably about some guy. The reason the police were there was because one of the girls, Tiffany, had pulled a knife on the other girl Ashley, and stabbed her in the arm. Ashley had a gun, which she somehow managed to smuggle in, and shot Tiffany in the leg. (A/N: Two girls at my school named Tiffany and Ashley actually did get into a fight over a guy. There were no weapons, but it took the vice principal, two gym coaches, and the algebra teacher who also doubled as a track and football coach to separate them) They would probably have killed each other, but the Gym coaches and the ROTC sergeant had arrived to break them up.

She stood up on her tiptoes, trying to see if anyone was getting through. It didn't look like it, so she decided to go out and enter the choir room from the outside, before she was too late to class.

The bell had already been and gone a good five minutes before Christine managed to fight her way through the exponentially increasing crowd. This was no easy task, as many of the people in the back were jocks, and running into them with her petit frame had about as much effect as running into a steel beam, as far as moving them went, but eventually she got outside, jogged around the building, and entered the choir room.

♫ ♫ ♫

Meg looked around nervously for Christine. Christine was _never _late. The only time she was ever even _slightly _delayed for _anything _was when she'd been singing to herself in her mirror or listening to her soundtrack.

Approximately ten minutes later, Christine slipped in through the back door. Meg sighed in relief. Christine got settled in her chair just in time, as only seconds later, the door swung open to reveal the choir teacher strolling in with a cup of coffee in one hand and a donut in the other.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bowers," Charlotté simpered. (A/N: Mrs. Bowers is a name I pulled out of thin air. If she bears any resemblance to a Mrs. Bowers you know, it's unintentional.)

"Why, it is good to see you, Charlotté," Mrs. Bowers simpered right back.

"Do you think those two are lesbians?" Meg whispered.

"They certainly seem so at times," Christine replied.

"Class," Mrs. Bowers called, setting down her refreshments, "I am sure you are aware that there will be a musical at this school that the Concert Choir—that's you guys—will perform."

Christine and Meg looked at each other excitedly.

"The musical is untitled, and that fact is a part of the story. This musical was written and composed by a student here in the city, but he wishes to remain anonymous," Mrs. Bowers continued.

Meg looked at Christine with an I-told-you-so expression. Christine just crossed her eyes at her friend.

"You might have heard that this musical has an alto part for the lead," said Mrs. Bowers.

Christine smiled brilliantly, songs she could do at her audition already going through her mind.

"Well, you were wrong."

Christine gaped.

"I have taken the liberty of transposing the part so that our leading soprano, Charlotté Williams will sing it."

Christine's face fell. _Just like everything else in this rotten excuse for a choir_, she thought.

"I have also taken the liberty of removing the…" her nose wrinkled, as if she was about to say a profanity, "…ballet, from the musical."

Meg's expression was exactly similar to Christine. A mixture of disbelief, anger, disgust, and depression.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: This chappy belongs to my kitten, Christine, who has sat on my lap the entire time while I typed this. SHE'S SO CUUUUTE!

R&R, please.

Tris


	4. Enter, Fop

A/N: I always wanted to combine all the evil teachers I've ever met into two great lumps of evilness (Dr. Mueller and Mrs. Bowers, if you never read the last chappy). I wonder, can you guess the name of the new kid that Tiffany and Ashley were fighting over. I'll give you a hint. He's a character you've been expecting (probably dreading), and there is no sign of a mask anywhere on his person.

I haven't gotten any reviews since I posted the last chappy, but I'll just tell myself that any reviewers are all doing summerish things that don't involve a computer. I've been making an effort to make my chappys longer, and amazing (!) it worked out. YAY for me! And YAY for my two muses, Anya, the wi'ich, and Christine, the kitten (who I need to go get so she can help me). And there will be fop-bashing in this chappy, and probably the ones to come. If you like Raoul and take offense at that, you need to be locked up, for no one can like Raoul AND Erik.

Disclaimer: Must you rub it in?

♫ ♫ ♫

The 'new kid,' who was by now very familiar with that label, strutted down the hall, reveling in the fact that even more people noticed him than they had at his old school, unlikely as that seemed. He brushed some of his shoulder length blonde hair out of his eyes, wishing he'd had time to put it up in a ponytail that morning. But, alas, his primping time had been a mere half of what he normally had, since he—a senior—had had to rush down to the school at _seven o'clock _that morning to correct a misunderstanding with some paperwork. Apparently, some secretary hadn't been paying attention to what he was saying and had put down 'Raoul de Changy' as his name. Not that he minded being compared to _that_ Raoul, but if his mom came in and said, 'Hi, I'm Emma Changy, and I need to pick up my son.' 'What's his name?' 'Raoul Changy.' 'I'm sorry, we don't have any students by that name.' You wouldn't _believe_ how many problems two letters could cause.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he nearly steamrolled over a girl with black hair. He nearly tripped, and had to throw his arms around her. He held her there for a moment, then stepped back to get a good look at her.

"Vous abruti ! Disparaissent la vis vous-même ! Je ne suis pas intéressé par vous, vous hybride ! Stoppez se frotter partout je ! Damnez-vous à l'enfer et au dos ! (You asshole! Go screw yourself! I'm not interested in you, you bastard! Quit rubbing yourself all over me! Damn you to hell and back!)" she shouted.

Raoul apologized foppishly, "I'm sorry, but I don't speak French. What did you say?"

"Vous abruti ! Disparaissent la vis vous-même ! Je ne suis pas intéressé par vous, vous hybride ! Stoppez se frotter partout je ! Damnez-vous à l'enfer et au dos ! (You asshole! Go screw yourself! I'm not interested in you, you bastard! Quit rubbing yourself all over me! Damn you to hell and back!)" she repeated.

"I'm _sorry_, but I don't speak French. What did you say?"

"Vous abruti ! Disparaissent la vis vous-même ! Je ne suis pas intéressé par vous, vous hybride ! Stoppez se frotter partout je ! Damnez-vous à l'enfer et au dos ! (You asshole! Go screw yourself! I'm not interested in you, you bastard! Quit rubbing yourself all over me! Damn you to hell and back!)" she said, even more loudly and insistently.

Some of the people in the hall had overheard the altercation by now. The ones that took French blushed slightly.

Raoul was looking around bewildered as to why so many people were turning red around him. "Look," he said to the strange girl, "I'm sorry if I offended you in any way."

She just glared at him as if he was some beetle with extremely pretty hair. (A/N: This or any other description of Raoul's hair as anything other than pansyish is his own opinion of himself. I do not think his hair is pretty at all.) "Regardez, garçon de ruche, gardez vos mains au loin de moi et pourriez-vous immobile avoir une tête à la fin du jour, obtenue la ? (Look, ruffle boy, keep your hands off of me and you might still have a head at the end of the day, got it?)" she snapped.

One girl giggled as the black haired one walked away.

"Don't worry. That was Cécile Jammes, our French foreign exchange student. She doesn't like being touched," said a voice in his ear.

Raoul whirled, nearly stepping on a graceful looking blonde girl. She smiled at him. "I could tell that," he said dryly. "I don't speak French. What'd she say?"

"Ah, she just cursed at you. Nothing major. Meg Giry," she introduced herself, holding out her hand. "Touch me and you die," she said, as he reached to shake her hand. Meg shoved her hand back into a pocket.

Raoul mimed that he'd been hurt. It'd worked with ice-sculpture girls before. _This Meg Giry is a particularly…well-formed…ice sculpture_. He hadn't seen the movie, just pictures online of Raoul de Changy. "Aah, your rapier wit, it pains me," he said.

"Vous voulez la douleur ? Essayez de porter un corset et des chaussures de pointe, vous bellâtre d'idiot, (You want pain? Try wearing a corset and pointe shoes, you idiot fop,)" she snapped, then walked away in much the same manner as that…Cécile Jammes. (A/N: So I stole from _Pirates of the Caribbean_? Sue me)

Raoul looked after her. _French women, _he thought, adjusting his extraordinarily pretty hair again. _Or maybe it's women in general_.

Another girl was walking toward him. He was a babe magnet today. Now, if he could get their phone numbers instead of them yelling at him in French. This one was a brunette. She eyed him carefully as she approached, as if he might bite her.

♫ ♫ ♫

_So _this_ is the infamous new kid, Raoul Changy,_ Christine thought. _Why is my life turning into one big Phantom of the Opera? I hate Gaston Leroux, and Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Joel Schumacher, and anyone else who helped publicize Erik's sad excuse for an existence. And he should be showing up any time now, if the plot keeps going the way it is._

Christine surveyed him, feeling the same intense disgust as she did when she saw his widely bashed counterpart, the Vicomte, Raoul de Changy. _How could I ever even _think _I was in love with that sorry excuse for a man? _Yep, she was _definitely_ going to be the first person to try time travel.

"Have you seen Meg Giry or Cécile Jammes?" she asked nervously.

"Yes, both of them," Raoul replied. "They yelled at me and then stalked off." He'd decided that 'walked' was too ordinary a term for the way that they vacated the particular piece of ground that he was standing on. "Do you have problems with being touched?"

"Only by some people," she said, sighing. "Christine Daae."

"Raoul Changy. Aren't we supposed to be lovers or something?"

Christine sighed deeply, and regretted giving her last name. "Raoul, je n'aime jamais vous, et moi volonté. Juste parce qu'elle s'est produite dans un film, ne signifie pas qu'il se produira dans la vraie vie. Le should've I a sélectionné Erik plus de vous alors, mais puisque je ne peux pas je le fait maintenant, (Raoul, I don't love you, and I never will. Just because it happened in a movie, doesn't mean it'll happen in real life. I should've picked Erik over you then, but since I can't I'm doing it now,)" she said rapidly.

Raoul felt drowned in a wave of French, but one word caught him, besides his own name. _Eric, _he thought. _I shall have to look up this Eric._

Christine, too stalked off. Raoul sighed. Daae didn't sound French, so maybe it _was _women in general. He was losing his perfectly manicured touch. He consulted his schedule. _English, Literature and Composition, with Mrs. Spreadborogh, _he thought. (A/N: Momentary credit to _The Year My Life Went Down the Loo_) _This should be fun._

He consulted the room number, consulted the signs, and walked down the hall, his ego slightly—but only slightly—subdued. He noted with amusement that he was going the same way that those three girls had gone. _This _had the prospect of being _quite _interesting.

♫ ♫ ♫

Think of me 

_  
think of me fondly,_

_  
when we've said goodbye._

_  
Remember me_

_  
once in a while –_

_  
please promise me_

_  
you'll try._

Christine hummed to herself, getting ready for a fun day in English. Meg often compared the class to having your soul being ripped out and trampled on, and then being taught how to write essays. Christine agreed with the assessment.

She blanched as Raoul strutted through the door and took a seat fairly close to her, Meg, and Cécile. She was _quite _grateful when Shouting Spreadborogh started class immediately.

Meg turned to see if Miranda had screwed in her earplugs, but even she looked subdued. _Something probably happened with that Dr. Mueller,_ Meg thought, unable to repress a shudder, _and Christine just didn't get a chance to tell me about it what with the fight and the musical and all. _Thinking of the musical made her quite bitter, but she couldn't get her thoughts out of that rut. _I hope the anonymous writer of this mysterious musical really _is _Erik, then maybe he'll haunt Lucibowers until she puts back the ballet and changes the lead back to alto. That'd make some good goss, too. The fight, while interesting, will only make a few classes worth of scandal before it becomes old news, but a ghost… that novelty might last for _days.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: How long should I make you guys wait before I introduce Erik (_IF _I introduce him at all…muahahaha)? R & R, please.


	5. A Mishap With Shakespeare

A/N: Hooray for Earth (I couldn't resist. _Invader Zim _rocks)! I'm trying to be witty, but it's early and I'm all wittied out.

Responses (YAY!)

**IflyNAVY**-Why thank you. (again, all wittied out)

**Silvermasque**-Although that would be EXTREMELY fun, to have a _married TEACHER_ be obsessed with Ruffle Boy, Mrs. Bowers is too busy being Lucibowers to sing.

**Beverly Vulcan Princess**-Wait a minute. Why am I talking to you? I never saw you review:grins: Trisana picks you up, waves you around, and tosses you into a pile of pillows! And she hates Andrew Lloyd Webber for publicizing a story of people with similar names, 'cause now Ruffle Boy expects her to go out with him.

**Onashii**-Fine, fine, I give in. I actually did come up with a good way to put him in, so look for him prolly in this chappy, at least a little bit. Ssh, though.

Disclaimer: I own SOME people, so fwah:sticks tongue out at general populace:

♫ ♫ ♫

After school that day, Raoul wasted no time booting up his computer and Googling 'Eric.' He knew the likelihood of him finding _anything_, much less anything useful in the 74,800,000 sites that popped up was quite slim. But maybe there was some mythological figure by that name, something that would cause Christine to mention his name.

After thirty results, Raoul gave up. These were just homepages of random guys that were named Eric. He'd have to ask that—rather pretty—lump of green that was Christine Daae.

Raoul sighed. He had an essay for Shouting Spreadborogh due, but he decided to put it off for some much needed primping. He still hadn't had time to brush his hair adequately, and it was lacking some of its shine, so he sat down at his vanity and got to work.

♫ ♫ ♫

Christine looked blankly at the empty Microsoft Word document in front of her. She was expected to write some analysis or something on _Romeo and Juliet_. She glanced sidelong at her bookshelf. It was right there…and so tempting… _No! _she thought. _Remember, Christine, you nearly _failed _science last year when you were reading instead of disproving the speed of light or building things out of toothpicks or whatever else you're supposed to do in physics!_

Christine decided that she could start with a 'proper heading.' Spreadborogh was _very _proper. Course name and class period on the top line on the left side. Assignment below that. Name on the top line on the right side. Date below _that_. (A/N: Sounding familiar, BVP?) She remembered a quite eloquent phrasing about Romeo and Juliet in a book she'd read, and hastily flipped it open. It was plagiarism, she knew, but she was going to be rephrasing it. And, on that note, what were the odds that Shouting Spreadborogh had read _Q-in-Law _by Peter David? Next to none. She abhorred _all _forms of science fiction.

Christine found the page she was looking for, and typed in something about parental neglect and teenage suicide, but the underlying romance of it all. A thousand words melted away before she knew it. _Thank you, Data,_ she thought as she printed it out. (A/N: If you're about to kill me for making Christine a sci-fi fan, deal with it. She's not _overly _obsessive, and doesn't like much more than _Star Trek _and _Stargate_.)

♫ ♫ ♫

Meg sat painting her nails, sore all over, wondering what her friends (and enemies) were doing right then. _Christine's either singing to herself, trying to make her range higher so she at least has a _chance _of getting through the pre-pre-audition_, _or doing homework. Poor girl, _she decided. _Cécile is more than likely screaming at some guy on the phone or IMing her sister back in Paris. Raoul, I bet, is brushing his hair. Charlotté's trying to break the windows; I can hear her from here. What cruel god made Christine and me have to live across the road from that monstrosity?_

Meg wondered why she hadn't flunked out long before now, and decided that it was her mother. Oh, no, her mother wasn't bribing anyone, but the entire school knew that Antoinette Giry was the only respectable ballet instructor in the city, sad as that was, and everyone knew it, and didn't want to offend her by flunking her daughter. Meg snickered at the thought. _Those poor fools think that she'll be offended and quit her job or something._

♫ ♫ ♫

The next day at school, Christine ran into Raoul again. He wasted no time. "Who is this Eric?" he asked.

She turned pale white. "W-what do y-you know a-bout E-Erik?" she stammered.

"You mentioned him to me in your torrent of French yesterday."

Christine sighed in relief. So he _didn't _know anything. She consulted her watch. "Sorry, but I'm running late, and if I don't get to Dr. Mueller's class in time…" she shuddered at the thought.

"Not so fast," Raoul said, grabbing her arm. "There's a good twenty minutes until class starts."

She shot him a withering glare. "You really _are _new here," she commented, "not to hear about Dr. Mueller. Now, if you'll please excuse me, I have to get to class." When he didn't show any sign of releasing her, she pried her arm out of his fairly weak grasp.

"She's not lying, you know," a voice whispered in Raoul's ear.

He jumped a good two feet straight up, and turned around to see that…Meg Giry, that was her name. She'd stormed off (he'd decided that even 'stalked' was too mild a term) after he'd barely started flirting with her. He wished she'd quit sneaking up like that.

"How do you know? Do you have Dr. Mueller?" Raoul asked.

"No, I'd never do that. But I _know_."

"How? Christine could be lying."

"How, monsieur? I," she said, sweeping into a formal curtsey, "am the local Gossip Queen. I know everything there is to possibly know about the denizens of these halls."

"What does that d word mean?"

"Denizen?"

"Yes."

"Oh, there's the bell. I have to go, or I'll be late."

_What's a denizen? _he thought.

♫ ♫ ♫

The rest of the day flew by, and it was all at least average, except Christine got an 'F' on her essay. _Romance isn't an underlying topic, it's the main theme. Try harder to figure that out when you do Macbeth tonight._

Christine glanced sidelong at Meg's essay. She'd barely scraped by a passing grade. She looked at Raoul's. It was covered with strands of long blonde hair, but had earned a B plus.

"To continue with our studies, you will be expected to write an essay of the same length about Macbeth tonight," Mrs. Spreadborogh shouted.

♫ ♫ ♫

As the bell rang after the last class, Christine told Meg that she'd walk home herself and not to wait for her. She said she wanted to think.

Meg nodded. It wasn't an unusual request. "Very well. I'll see you in a while, then."

Christine smiled back at her friend. "Maybe not. You have dance today, remember?"

Meg groaned. "What day of the week is it?" she asked.

Christine giggled slightly. "It doesn't matter. You have dance every day, remember?"

"I just want to know how many days until the weekend when I can have some rest," Meg stated.

"You know as well as I do that your mother wants to work on your solo, and has scheduled extra practices this weekend," said Christine primly.

"Slavedriving mother," Meg muttered, then headed out to her car.

Christine grinned at her friend's retreating back. She _did _have some thinking to do, and knew the perfect place to do it.

♫ ♫ ♫

In the school auditorium, Christine sat on the stage, looking out at the dark room, dangling her feet over the edge. She really wanted to sing, and she wanted to sing from her favorite musical, but there were _no _parts an alto could do. No female parts, that is. She could easily master Raoul's, but wouldn't lower her standards so much. She sighed. There was nothing she could do. The janitor would be coming by soon, and she didn't want to get caught.

She stepped onto center stage, and said, "O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?" remembering the debacle in English, giggling at the overly formal dialect. This having been said, she ran off the stage, and out of the theatre.

And long after the echoes of her feet had faded, a voice from the rafters answered, "Herefore I art."

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: I wanted to make this a MAJOR cliffie, but I decided that I'll be nice to you guys, if you just REVIEW.


	6. Again, Meg!

A/N: Thanks to all you guys. Here, I'm updating. Oh, just in case I confuzzled anyone, the italics after Christine got an F on her essay, that was a note from Spreadborogh, not her thoughts.

**Beverly Vulcan Princess**-:bother:bother:bother:bothers Kit Anika- Wildmage since she hasn't reviewed since yelling at me about being desperate:bother:

**Onashii**-Raoul going bald…intriguing idea. Imagine his disgust… :giggles evilly:

**Phantomlover22**-Don't you hate that? And I'm definitely writing more. And who says that the ballet and the alto lead are gone? There is a certain Erik to be reckoned with!

**Dragima**-All I'm willing to promise is that Raoul won't die. And he'll be keeping his extremities.

**Silvermasque**-WAAH! Silvermasque HATES me:calms down: I was just channeling Raoul. :runs around screaming:takes off to the nearest church for purification:

**Maidenhair**-Oh… So THAT'S where that phic went. Thanks for the tip

**Maidenhair**-Raoul is an idiot. This will never change.

**Maidenhair**-TOAST… TOAST is the food of life. Isis, the Egyptian goddess (or Goa'uld, whichever way you slice it) knows this. TOAST TOAST TOAST!

**IflyNAVY**-Well, who else would it be? A janitor with a Shakespeare fetish?

**Nixieharpist**-You have to swear on Raoul's dismembered head that you'll never tell ANYONE. Mrs. Bowers IS my choir teacher. But I NEVER HAVE TO STEP FOOT IN HER SCHOOL EVER AGAIN! HOORAY FOR HIGH SCHOOL!

**Daisy Diva**-I'll warn you, then. THIS PHIC CONTAINS RAOUL BASHING!

♫ ♫ ♫

_I hate the world,_ he thought. _But I really hate the chunk of the world I'm residing on right now. _He desperately wanted to talk to Christine, maybe take her to dinner or something. He _mostly_ just wanted to make sure that that blonde yuppie hadn't swept her off her feet. The only thing that was stopping him was…himself. He knew she must be disturbed enough already. She was Christine Daae. Her best friend was Meg Giry. Another close friend was Cécile Jammes. Now this Raoul Changy. Not to mention Charlotté Williams, who was only _not _named Carlotta by a mishap by her parents, when her father misheard Carlotta as Charlotta. Charlotta was spelled Charlotté because it looked fancier. He knew if he was in Christine's shoes, he'd be panicking. He could only imagine the freak-out she would have if a mysterious cloaked, masked man named Erik who lived in her school theater came up and asked her out one day. _I hate the world,_ he thought. _I really hate the chunk I'm residing on, I _really _hate the chunk Raoul's residing on, but I _**really **_hate the chunk Gaston Leroux is buried on. I guess my mother thought it was _funny _to name me Erik. She probably figured it'd get a good laugh at all those parties she went to._

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Erik drew back even further into the shadows. The door to the auditorium slammed open, revealing Christine clutching a boombox.

"I really hope this theater is empty," she announced. "As I am about to make a complete and utter fool of myself and would appreciate if no one was watching."

As Erik watched, she climbed up on the stage again and set down the boombox. She manipulated a few controls and stood up at center stage. A few seconds later, music came out of the box. Erik recognized it as the Overture for the Andrew Lloyd Webber version of _The Phantom of the Opera_. Christine started dancing around crazily, causing him to raise an eyebrow. After the song ended, Christine paused her CD and curtsied.

"Thank you, I enjoyed myself, now I need food." This time, when she left, she didn't come back.

♫ ♫ ♫

_Why on earth did I just do that? _Christine wondered. _What purpose did that accomplish? Well, it's the closest you'll get to performing that _you'll _ever get, _another voice answered. _Oh, shove it_, she replied.

She walked across the street from the school to Casablanca, her favorite Mexican restaurant. As she walked in and sat at a table, she noticed that her boombox was earning her some strange looks. As the waiter asked what she'd like to drink, she considered asking for a frozen margarita, but ordered a Dr Pepper instead. For her meal, she got Vegetarian B, two bean burritos. It was good, like always, but she wished that she'd brought headphones so she could listen to her music during her meal.

After she left Casablanca, Christine resumed her walk home, stopping only to wave to her friend as she passed Antoinette Giry's dance studio, where she taught additional lessons to her classes, as well as pupils who weren't in high school yet. Meg shot her an _I'm dying here, can't you rescue me _look, before turning away from the window so her mother wouldn't notice.

♫ ♫ ♫

"Again, Meg!" Antoinette barked. "You are not focused! We will stay here until you get it right!"

"But Mom…" Meg said.

"Dance Masters of America is in a matter of weeks! You are not ready! You must perfect your solo!"

"But-"

"I do not care! Again, Meg!"

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: I'll admit, it was short, it went nowhere, but I'm going swimming in Lake Guntersville, so fwah!


	7. Prank Calls to a Fop

A/N: Lake Guntersville rocked. We even got a boat to tow us. Me, my dad's girlfriend's son, and my dad's girlfriend's friend and his son. So if that was you in the boat, thank you muchly. This next chappy's a tad different from the book, 'cause Erik can do calligraphy. Oh, and I have to use you guys to rant. Do any of y'all watch Spike TV? Television for Men, I know, but it's also The Official Home of Star Trek: DS9 and Star Trek: TNG and MacGyver is on it as well, in addition to CSI, so on a good day I can watch for eight hours (2-DS9, 3-TNG, 1-MacGyver, 2-CSI). ANYHOODLES, at the end of every show, they have this jingle to advertise for their James Bond Movie Month. One line goes. "_His real secret weapon he keeps in his pants._" It goes downhill from there. There, I ranted.

**Dragima**-Heehee. You know, I might just not have anything involving Erik for a while, just to be evil. No, I'm just kidding. I guess you know, from reading my Authoress' Note. Whatever.

♫ ♫ ♫

_Kristi Bowers,_

_It has come to my knowledge that you have made changes to my musical that I did not authorize. Among these are removing the string section of the accompaniment, changing the lead part to that of a soprano, and removing the ballet. I understand why you did this. You are far too lazy to seek out students to make a string section, and will allow the school band to completely butcher my work, and drown out any sparse talent that might be on the stage. You made the lead a soprano part because you possess an innate dislike of large alto parts, due to your extremely inaccurate belief that there really are no altos, and that section is populated by sopranos who are merely too lazy to increase their range. The ballet you removed as a slight to Madame Antoinette Giry, who is a woman I hold in the highest esteem. I demand that you restore my musical to its former glory. If you wish to give a letter to me, speak to the aforementioned Madame Giry. Should these demands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur._

_Your most obedient servant,_

_Anonymous_

_Postscript: Did you know that some of the members of the alto section of your Concert Choir refer to you as Lucibowers?_

The words sprawled across the page in elegant red letters. He only included the exact quotes from his nineteenth century counterpart for dramatic effect. He tucked the note into an envelope, scrawled 'Kristi' on it in a fair impersonation of Charlotté's writing, and set it on top of a pile of such letters.

Erik looked around Mrs. Bowers' office, taking the opportunity while he was here. It was a complete wreck. There was sheet music, CDs, videos, and love notes from Charlotté everywhere, even on the keyboard and printer of her computer. _Someone should really come and clean in here sometime,_ he thought, looking with displeasure. _Maybe I can get Charlotté to come clean it. You know, that's actually a really good idea._ Pulling a clean sheet of paper out of her printer, he cleared a spot off of her desk and began to write, although not in his normal elegant script, but an almost childish scrawl identical to that of Mrs. Bowers'.

_Charlotté,_

_I have a job for you. I need you to clean out my office for me sometime._

_K._

_Passable, _he thought, slipping it into a pile of 'outgoing' notes on the desk, then maneuvered the mess around so it covered the blank spot he'd written the note on.

Erik scratched an itch on his forehead, and his finger bumped up against his mask. _Not only is it offensive that she named me Erik, making a joke at my expense, but she won this particular mask at an auction on EBay, and it was supposedly actual memorabilia from the 2004 movie. Does her sense of humor ever fail? _he thought.

Erik exited the office before he could be tempted to graffiti the room, or something of the kind.

♫ ♫ ♫

Raoul sat, trying to watch TV, his hair in curlers.

"Honey, do you have homework?" his mother Emma trilled behind him.

Raoul was unresponsive, his only reaction was to flip the channel.

"Honey, do you want some dinner?"

Flip.

"Honey, do you want to watch a movie?"

Flip.

"Honey, can I get you anything?"

Flip.

"Honey, do you want to come swimming?"

Flip.

"Honey, do you want to play a board game?"

Flip.

Ring.

"Honey, a girl is calling for you."

For the first time, Raoul spoke. "Who is she?"

"Oh sorry, she just hung up."

Flip.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: Utterly pointless, I know. Sue me. I just wanted to establish the Raoul/Emma relationship.

♫ ♫ ♫

For lack of anything better to do, Christine booted up Madness Interactive. Her essay on _Macbeth _was in her printer, her science project for Chemistry on mole calculations been and gone, her fifty page term paper for Dr. Mueller completed a good week ago, the day it had been assigned. She knew better than to take chances where Dr. Mueller was concerned. 'Ze smell of science,' as he called it, was the punishment for a student that was late with anything. The student teacher, McPhearson, who was unlucky enough to get Dr. Mueller as an assignment often compared it to blood, urine, and feces.

Christine ran through the tutorial again. It was a long time since she'd been bored enough to play this. Soon, however, she was beating up guys like there was no tomorrow. A whirlwind of blonde hair sprung up in her imagination every time she killed someone with a urinal. Madness Interactive soon lost its charm, though. As did Kitten Cannon. And Prachka. And Spacerunner. And even FlashTrek. You could only laugh about planet Biatch in the Hitcha sector needing a shipment of toilet paper, or planet Vulcan needing a shipment of swingsets so many times before it got old.

Christine looked at her clock, noticing that it was a little after midnight. This was not good. She logged off her computer and went to bed, putting in her earplugs lest Charlotté's 'practicing' disturb her.

♫ ♫ ♫

Meg sat in her room, so sore it made her sore even to think about it. She was covered in those heat wraps literally from head to foot, not that they were doing a bit of good. Why did she have to be a good ballerina? _Why _did she have to be flexible? **_Why _**couldn't she be properly clumsy? Moreover, **_WHY _**did her mother have to be Antoinette Giry? Many other girls described their mothers with…colorful…descriptive words, but only her name was necessary to strike fear into the hearts of 'the young ladies of the ballet,' as Antoinette referred to them. She still couldn't figure out why her mother wouldn't let her use gel pads in her pointe shoes. Considering that she was on pointe for a minimum of an hour at least five days a week, she would be allowed. Nope. Not in her house. Meg climbed into her bed, wincing. Within five minutes of turning off the light, she was unconscious.

♫ ♫ ♫

Compared to the utter boredom of Christine, and the exhaustion of Meg, Cécile was the opposite exactly. She was having the time of her life, prank calling boys at school. She'd already called Raoul Changy's house at least a dozen times, giving a different false name each time. Once she'd even had the nerve to claim to be Charlotté, which delighted her to no end.

_One more time, _she told herself. She dialed the phone.

"Hello?" asked the woman Cécile presumed to be Raoul's mother answered, sounding haggard.

"Hello, I need to talk to Raoul," she said, making her voice sound deeper than it did usually.

"Umm…who is this?" she asked, sounding cautious.

"My name is Emma Changy," Cécile said. "I know Raoul from school."

"Emma Changy? I hardly believe you. _I'm _Emma Changy."

"Really?" Cécile asked, pretending she didn't already know. "That's terribly interesting, but I need to talk to Raoul urgently."

"OK…He's watching TV. I'll put him on."

Cécile heard a conversation between Emma and Raoul through the phone.

"There's a girl for you," Emma said. It had gone this way many times.

"Mother, that's the fifteenth time you've said that tonight. Every time she's mysteriously 'hung up.' Gimme the phone now. Hello? Hello?"

All he heard was a dial tone.

Cécile laughed hysterically, then decided to start balancing some equations that needed to be done for the next day.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: Tell me what you think. I'm going to go play Scrabble. Adios!


	8. Hehe, Evil Cliffie

A/N: It's been forever since an update, I know. Getting started in High School was just hectic. But now that I actually go to the school I'm portraying Christine and her posse as going to, I can give you better descriptions. Every day in dance when we're supposed to be stretching and waiting for the teacher, I lie on the floor of the stage and look up at the catwalks. I swear to you that there's a Punjab hanging from one. Or maybe it's just the acid again.

I heard it through the grapevine (from Random- My Sport of Choice) formerly Kit Anika-Wildmage, formerly Kitsune Dragon Girl, formerly Kitsune Fire Dragon, and from other sources that review responses aren't allowed. This is sad. Without review responses I wouldn't have figured out many things about my reviewers, like that Silvermasque had a huge thing for George Cooper, same as I did :hugs George:. Even so, I have to give a shout-out to Emmily for your review of THE Script. **_You and Yuka settled your differences!_**

Adi, if you mind me using the DBCA in this, tell me and I'll take it out.

Carol, I'm sorry if I paint you in a bad light, I'm not meaning to, you are very sweet and awesome, but the other characters are more biased.

Trevor, I'll try to put your cameo in this chappy. I can't promise, as I don't know anything about the plot.

Onward we go!

Disclaimer: I'm not even talking to you people any more if you insist I do this.

♫ ♫ ♫

_Christine was walking down a long, white hallway. She could see a tall, thin black-clothed figure at the end. For some reason, he was singing._

"Say you'll share with me,

One love, one lifetime.

Lead me, save me from my solitude.

Share each day with me, each night each morning."

Christine was drawing closer. The figure was still distant, but she could tell that he had a white mask on the right side of his face.

"Anywhere you go, let me go too,

Christine, that's all I ask of-"

Christine was close enough now to reach out and touch him. She was about to, when a gut wrenching noise shattered the peaceful calm of the hallway.

♫ ♫ ♫

Christine was jerked awake at the ungodly hour of 5:30 A.M. when her alarm clock clicked on and started buzzing. She quickly switched it to the radio setting and let 102.1 WDRM fill the room. Christine knew the futility of trying to sleep in, so she struggled out of bed and into her bathroom, humming along with the singer on the radio, knowing she'd have the song stuck in her head for the rest of the day.

_I got blamed at your wedding reception,_

_For your best man's embarrassing speech._

_And also for those naked pictures of you at the beach._

_I've influenced Kings and world leaders,_

_I helped Hemingway write like he did._

_And I'll bet you a drink or two, that I can make you put that lampshade on your head._

'_Cause since the day I left Milwaukee,_

_Lynchburg and Bordeaux, France,_

_I been making a fool out of folks just like you,_

_An' helping white people dance._

_I am medicine and I am poison,_

_I can help you up or make you fall._

_You had some of the best times you'll never remember with me:_

_Alcohol._

After she had showered and brushed her teeth and hair—an exacting procedure requiring much patience and a high tolerance for pain—she stepped back into her bedroom and rummaged through her drawers for something to wear. Realizing she couldn't care less what she put on, she went for the infallible strategy of picking what was on the top of the drawer. Christine slipped on a black shirt that had 'DBCA' on the front in fancy script and 'Adriana is our Queen' on the back in the same font (A/N: for true Huntsvilleites, the font I'm imagining is the one on the Allegro Academy of Dance sign. The studio's on Whitesburg, real near to Blacklight Golf if you don't know where Allegro is), and a pair of black velvet pants (A/N: Yes, Mere-K, black velvet pants). She looked at herself in the mirror, knowing she'd win the strange look contest for today. _I mean seriously,_ she thought, _these people should just read the phanphic I tell them will explain everything instead of badgering me all day._

Glancing at her clock, she saw that it was only 6:15, and that she had time for a more nutritious breakfast than a Pop Tart™. As she padded out to the kitchen in her toe socks (black with glow-in-the-dark smiley faces on them), she realized that she was the only one moving in the house. This wasn't unusual. Deanne wasn't up yet, and probably wouldn't be for a while. _She's gonna get a real shock when she has to be at school at 8:00 for Kindergarten next year_, Christine thought bitterly. Her father, a workaholic, was probably already at the office. Her older sister Danyelle would be over right about the time she was leaving to go to school, as Danyelle watched Deanne all day. _She never should have dropped out of college_, Christine thought. _And over a guy. How stupid. I'm sure everyone on that campus had at least one ex that went to UAH too, and none of them dropped out._ Christine opened the freezer and pulled out a Lean Pockets Breakfast Pocket™. _You're right, Christine_, she told herself, _this is _much _more nutritious than a Pop Tart™. Well if you're going to stand around and think bitter thoughts about your family for half an hour, you can't really expect to have a gourmet breakfast._

At precisely 7:05 and 42 seconds, Christine grabbed her bag and binder and walked out the front door. Exactly 12 seconds later, Meg's car, a Hummer H2—her mom wanted her to be safe on the road—pulled up. It was like this every morning. Christine and Meg had even synchronized their clocks and watches with the Weather Channel, the Almighty God of Clocks in Huntsville, Alabama. (A/N: If I mess up the Hummer, I'm sorry, I've never even seen the inside of one, I'm modeling mostly after a Honda Pilot on steroids)

"Hello, Cleveland! Good morning, Meg Giry!" Christine said far louder and more optimistically than she would have any other day, just to annoy her friend.

Meg glared grumpily at Christine, saying "We're in Huntsville, not Cleveland, and there's nothing good about this morning." She winced at every motion she had to make. (A/N: You think Meg's a wimp, you try taking ballet and/or pointe.)

"Well aren't you Miss Sunshine this morning!" Christine replied, fiddling with the radio. Normally it was a constant war: Meg wanted hip hop or rap, and Christine wanted country. Christine took advantage of Meg being almost too sore to even think to change it to WDRM. One of her favorite Montgomery Gentry songs boomed through the car, inspiring the errant thought, _Troy is so hot_. _Where did that come from? _Christine wondered a moment later.

_This ain't no give it time, I'm hurtin' but maybe we can work it out, uh uh uh_

_  
Won't be no champagne, red rose, romance, second chance, uh uh uh_

_  
This is gone (gone) gone (gone) gone (gone) gone_

Gone like a freight-train, gone like yesterday

_  
Gone like a soldier in the Civil War, bang bang_

_  
Gone like a '59 Cadillac_

_  
Like all the good things that ain't never coming back_

_  
She's gone (gone) gone (gone) gone (gone) gone_

_  
She's gone_

_  
She's gone (gone) gone (gone) gone (gone) gone, she's gone_

Gone like a freight-train, gone like yesterday

_  
Gone like a soldier in the Civil War, bang bang_

_  
Gone like a '59 Cadillac_

_  
Like all the good things that ain't never coming back_

_  
She's gone (gone) she's gone (gone) she's gone (gone) she's gone_

_  
She's gone_

Gone like a freight-train, gone like yesterday

_  
Gone like a soldier in the Civil War, bang bang_

_  
Gone like a '59 Cadillac_

_  
Like all the good things_

_  
Well, she's gone_

Long gone, done me wrong

_  
Never comin' back, my baby's gone_

_  
Lonely at home, sittin' all alone_

_  
She's packed her bags and now she's gone_

_  
Never comin' back, she's gone_

_  
No no never, no no never, no never comin' back._

Meg came to herself enough to groan, "You _know_ I hate that twangy stuff! You're just taking advantage of me being near-comatose."

"You know it," Christine grinned.

♫ ♫ ♫

Christine was already sitting with her lunch, having opted for the sandwich in the face of overwhelming lines when Meg came up clutching a cheeseburger and looking as if she was about to faint. Christine felt her own eyes grow wide. Meg always got salads. Neither her mother nor her own knowledge would let her consume so much fat and cholesterol (A/N: Meg's not anorexic, she's simply eating right). "What happened, Meg?" Christine asked shakily.

"Chris, mom got fired."

"**_What!_**" Christine yelped loudly, causing several of the other seniors to unfasten their eyes from Family Guy to stare at her, including Raoul. "You're _joking_," she continued more softly.

"No, I'm not. Remember how I said she was acting kind of funny this morning after she checked her email? I walked in and stretched and everything just like normal, but then this other woman came in and told us that she was our new teacher and that mom wasn't working at Grissom anymore!"

♫ ♫ ♫

(Flashback)

_Meg sat in straddle with her stomach flat on the floor, her arms stretched out to the sides, and her eyes closed daydreaming. When she heard the auditorium door open, she abruptly sat up, and with her eyes still closed, she loosened up some more of the muscles that had become cramped during the night and the first three classes of the day. She wished she had eaten a banana that morning, as she knew from her mother's countless repetitions that potassium helped with muscle cramps. Any second now she would her the beat of her mother's cane on the stage and the call that heralded the arrival of the beginning of class, "Girls! Stand up and stagger yourselves so we may exercise!" Instead there was no cane, only a soft step, and a different voice said, "Hello, I am going to be your new dance teacher."_

_Meg's eyes snapped open and she gasped loudly. She wasn't the only one either._

_The new woman was taller than Mme. Giry and younger looking, with long straight light brown hair. She continued, "My name is Carol, and you may call me by my first name only. I will be your new teacher. Mme. Giry doesn't teach here at Grissom any more."_

_The class simply stared at her, wondering if it was all a practical joke and Mme. Giry was going to come out from backstage chuckling dryly and start class._

_At the girls' stares, Carol took a more authoritive tone of voice and said, "Come on, girls, get up. We're wasting class time."_

(End Flashback)

♫ ♫ ♫

"So that's what happened," Meg concluded after telling Christine what happened in class.

The rest of the day seemed to fly by for them: math and English were both in the morning. Even though the girls didn't have any classes together, they still made arrangements to meet up after school and walk down to see how Mme. Giry was doing. They both agreed that they could use the exercise after being cooped up all day, even though it was kind of redundant that they would walk down to the studio, walk back to get the car, and then drive home, and just over an hour later Meg would drive _back_ to the studio.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: Brief Authoress' Note. I just thought of something hilarious. This is only funny for native Huntsvilleites. The rest of you can just skip on down. OK, what about this. Y'all know Ann's was the first dance studio in the phonebook before Carol opened Allegro, yes? Well you do know. Well, what if Mme. Giry had started Ann's, (since she's Antoinette), then when she was topped by Allegro, changed the name to Adagio or something. It was a lot funnier in my head.

♫ ♫ ♫

Christine stood outside the front door listening to more of 'that twangy stuff' on her iPOD™ while she waited for Meg.

_Staring at you taking off your makeup_

_Wondering why you even put it on_

_I know you think you do, but baby, you don't need it_

_Wish that you could see what I see when it's gone_

_I see a dust trail following an old red Nova_

_Baby blue eyes and your head on my shoulder_

_Wait, baby don't move, right there it is_

_A T-shirt hanging off a dogwood branch_

_That river was cold but we gave love a chance-_

"There you are!" Meg's cry startled Christine out of her Rascal Flatts-induced reverie. "I've been looking all over the school! You said we'd meet at your locker!"

"Whatever," Christine shrugged, unwilling to get into an argument over this. "You're here now, let's get going."

The two friends set out walking, eliciting strange looks from other students. Everyone knew that the Hummer was Meg's and Christine almost always carpooled with her. At one point, the sidewalk got so narrow that two people couldn't walk side by side on it, so Christine walked in front, looking over her shoulder to listen to Meg rant about some guy she thought was hot.

(A/N: Trevor, I'm only imagining what you'd be like as a senior. Please don't kill me! Also, I'm basing Christine's Nerd Camp antics on my own experiences, 'cause I'm just too lazy to think up original ones.)

All of a sudden, Christine slammed into a guy going the opposite direction who clearly hadn't been paying attention either. He was the second-geekiest person at Huntsville High. No one was sure who the geekiest was, but many were of the firm belief that it was this guy's imaginary friend.

"Oh, fish," they both said.

"Did you just say 'fish'?" the guy asked.

"Yes, if it's any of your concern," Christine replied coolly.

"Do you have any idea what 'fish' means?" he asked.

"Of course, but I wouldn't expect you to," Christine said snidely. "Not unless you were…" suddenly a look of shock appeared on her face. "Oh my God! You're Trevor!"

"Guilty as charged," Trevor replied. "And you are…?"

"Don't you remember me? From Nerd Camp?"

"It's not a camp, it's a program," he said, getting a laugh from Christine and a strange look from Meg. Trevor squinted at Christine. "You were that weird girl! Who broke the CD players! And was obsessed with _Phantom of the Opera_!"

_She was obsessed _four years agoMeg asked herself.

"That's me. And you were the weird guy who was obsessed with parental advisory Christian bands."

"But something's different about you."

"My hair's not green, maybe," she offered sarcastically. "And I hope I look different than I did at 14."

_Oh, that was _that _summer, _Meg thought. _I don't remember why she dyed her hair in the first place. Something about 'Trooper spirit,' she said._

"Oh, that. Yeah, what was up with that?" he asked.

"I decided to dye my hair green. Is that a problem?" Christine asked, not intending it as a question.

Meg tapped Christine on the shoulder. "You're standing here, in broad daylight, talking to the second-geekiest guy at Huntsville High like it's nothing!" she whispered fiercely. "Don't you dare mar my reputation!"

"So, Christine," Trevor said, looking like he was about to laugh, "I heard some breaking news earlier…"

"Which was?" Christine inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Erik got eaten by a doggy!" (A/N: For an explanation, check out my Authoress' Note on Kathleen chappy 3 and the manga _Hellsing_, issue 2, the Merry Manga at the end.)

"Why…you…little…_Belgium!_" (A/N: For those of you who haven't read _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ and its sequels, Belgium is an epithet that should only be used in Serious Screenplays.)

"Language, Christine," Trevor scolded mockingly.

_Do those two have some kind of secret code going? _Meg wondered.

"Oh, Belgium you," she said, and turned on her heel and left.

"So…" Trevor said.

"I'm Meg. Meg Giry," Meg introduced herself. "And I've got to go catch up to Christine." She, too, left.

Trevor blinked. _What just happened? _he wondered

♫ ♫ ♫

After Christine and Meg had ascertained that Mme. Giry was perfectly fine, it was insisted that Meg had to work on her competition pieces, so she stayed behind. Meg gave her keys to Christine, and Christine herself promised to bring the Hummer back sometime before midnight.

Christine strolled back to Grissom, feeling sorry for Meg, who was doubtless already exhausted.

Back in Grissom, she noticed that one of the auditorium doors hadn't been locked, so she went in and sat up on the stage again. Suddenly she had the sudden desire to sing something. She already knew the song. There was an awesome Stargate music video made to it. Even though she'd probably butcher the high notes, the song was so _pretty_.

_Where have all the good men gone_

_  
And where are all the gods?_

_  
Where's the street-wise Hercules_

_  
To fight the rising odds?_

_  
Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed?_

_  
Late at night toss and turn and dream of what I need_

I need a hero

_  
I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night_

_  
He's gotta be strong_

_  
And he's gotta be fast_

_  
And he's gotta be fresh from the fight_

_  
I need a hero_

_  
I'm holding out for a hero 'til the morning light_

_  
He's gotta be sure_

_  
And it's gotta be soon_

_  
And he's gotta be larger than life_

Somewhere after midnight

_  
In my wildest fantasy_

_  
Somewhere just beyond my reach_

_  
There's someone reaching back for me_

_  
Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat_

_  
It's gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet_

I need a hero

_  
I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night_

_  
He's gotta be strong_

_  
And he's gotta be fast_

_  
And he's gotta be fresh from the fight_

_  
I need a hero_

_  
I'm holding out for a hero 'til the morning light_

_  
He's gotta be sure_

_  
And it's gotta be soon_

_  
And he's gotta be larger than life_

_  
Up where the mountains meet the heavens above_

_  
Out where the lightning splits the sea_

_  
I would swear that there's someone somewhere_

_  
Watching me_

Through the wind and the chill and the rain

_  
And the storm and the flood_

_  
I can feel his approach_

_  
Like the fire in my blood_

I need a hero

_  
I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night_

_  
He's gotta be strong_

_  
And he's gotta be fast_

_  
And he's gotta be fresh from the fight_

_  
I need a hero_

_  
I'm holding out for a hero 'til the morning light_

_  
He's gotta be sure_

_  
And it's gotta be soon_

_  
And he's gotta be larger than life._

Christine's heart felt considerably lighter after the song ended. Right then, even Dr. Mueller couldn't frighten her.

She jumped down from the stage and skipped out of the auditorium.

She was nearly to the door when she tripped and fell into a clump of shadows. Unlike other clumps of shadows, though, this one felt oddly solid and went 'oof' when she fell into it.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: Hehe, evil cliffie. The songs were _Alcohol_ by Brad Paisley, _Gone_ by Montgomery Gentry, _Fast Cars and Freedom_ by Rascal Flatts, and _Holding Out For a Hero_ by Frou Frou.


	9. The Lair

A/N: Hey, guys, it's me again. I decided to go ahead and update, because evil cliffies get on my nerves too, and the last thing I'd want is for you to be mad at me. But that was a week ago, because my computer went all wonky from Hurricane Katrina. I have a message board, which you should all visit. (It's under homepage on my profile)I was at Beverly Vulcan Princess' birthday party Saturday, and that was random, obviously. We were gonna watch _Phantom _to see how many times Gerry flips his cape, but we didn't. Phooey. Anyone who can give me that number will be greatly rewarded. Well, I have to get on, I have to get on!

The Voice Inside Your Head-trust me, you're not ruining the review system. Check out my reviews for A Perfect Cage and Innocent Angel.

I just finished Kay _Phantom_. What an ending…

♫ ♫ ♫

Christine thought that there was some delinquent hiding in the auditorium, so her first impulse was to _get the hell out of there_. However, she hadn't regained her balance from her fall into whoever was in the shadows, so she tripped again and fell into an awkward position in a chair, banging her head rather hard on an armrest and blacking out.

♫ ♫ ♫

Erik had listened to Christine sing, wincing as her voice broke on the high notes. _That girl really needs to stop pretending she has a range she does not,_ he thought. _Her lower register will suffer if she keeps ignoring its existence. _He really would have to look into getting some of his music published. _It would be perfect for her range. Well, obviously, as I wrote it for her._

Belatedly, Erik realized Christine had finished her son and was skipping up toward him. No, that wasn't right. To the door. Wait. Skipping? Seniors don't skip. She was right next to where he was lurking by the door when she tripped over something and came hurtling at him. Erik couldn't hold back a small 'oof!' when she collided with him. He watched in horror as she knocked herself out on a chair arm.

♫ ♫ ♫

As Christine is still unconscious, she is not thinking or doing anything important to the plot and so doesn't matter.

♫ ♫ ♫

Meg kept stealing glances out the window during the introduction of the piece, where she wouldn't have to worry about getting off-tempo, but she hadn't seen her Hummer go by yet. This vaguely worried her, but she shrugged it off. _Christine's probably just sitting in the auditorium. I don't think even she knows how much time she spends in there._

"Meg, this is _deplorable!_" Mme. Giry shouted, whacking the floor with her cane for emphasis. "You have not missed the opening for _months_! Do we need to do it with just counts again? I think we do! 5! 6! 7! 8!"

♫ ♫ ♫

Nope, Christine's still unconscious. Oh, wait, nevermind. She's coming around.

♫ ♫ ♫

The first thing Christine noticed was that it was rather dark. The second thing Christine noticed was that she was lying down on something that seemed more comfortable than a chair in the Grissom auditorium. The third thing Christine noticed was that she had a splitting headache. She managed to push herself up on her elbows, and noted that the limited amount of the room she could see was furnished in a nineteenth century style. _So is this what a hole in the space-time continuum feels like? _she wondered. She shrugged and wrestled her way out of the clinging silk sheets—as she had figured out that she was on a bed of some kind—and maneuvered over to the door. As Christine walked out, she noticed that unlike the room she had just left, the room she entered was well-lit—by candlelight. She nearly fainted when she noticed the organ, and the man sitting at it.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: You know, just to be evil, I could end it here…(ducks tomatoes thrown at her). Fine. I wasn't going to, anyway.

♫ ♫ ♫

Erik sat at his organ, his back to Christine's door, staring at a particularly stubborn passage of music. He normally would've been able to resolve the problem in a minute, but his thoughts kept wandering inexorably to the eighteen year old girl unconscious somewhere over his left shoulder. _No, there shouldn't be a key change there…_ he thought, scribbling a little bit off of the sheet he was staring over. _That means I'll have to transpose all these notes…_ More scribbling. _Something still doesn't look right. Good Lord! She's up!_ He had heard the click of the door opening behind him. (A/N: Sorry folks, Stranger Than You Dreamt It will be later, if she's stupid enough to mess with the mask.)

♫ ♫ ♫

_No. This is _not _happening. This is not happening. It's all an elaborately constructed dream, and as soon as I come to terms with that, I'll wake up and go back to the quite life with school and homework and WDRM._ Christine's thoughts were vaguely along this line, as she realized that the Phantom of the Opera was sitting right in front of her, at an organ, poring over a scrap of paper. _Well, at least I know not to touch the mask. I already have the upper hand!_

Erik turned to face her, saying in an incredibly musical voice (A/N: Dur! He's Erik!), "Ah, Christine. You are awake. Did you enjoy the bed? How are you feeling? Would you like some Tylenol or Advil for your head? You seem to have raised a sizeable lump on it."

Christine blinked. _Erik's talking to me. _The_ Erik. Talking to _me. _It's the end of the world. I love holes in the space-time continuum._ Something he had said registered on her. _Tylenol? Advil? I doubt those were invented in 1870 or 1881._ "Excuse me?" was all she managed to get out.

Erik smiled knowingly. "I imagine you are rather confused, Christine. You are not in the nineteenth century, much as the décor looks it. You're still in Grissom. And I am not just some dorky kid dressing up as the Phantom of the Opera."

Christine blinked again. _Erik… Grissom… Now… **What in the name of codfish is going on?**_

She collapsed in a dead faint.

Erik looked at her. _Idiot…_ he thought. _You're lucky she didn't have a nervous breakdown!_ Then he picked her up and carried her back into the room she had just left.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: Look, I'm sorry, but if you don't want to wait another week, it has to be this short.


End file.
